He’d packed the gun and left it with the cook at the diner because his experience of losing time while he stared at the weapon had taught him there was every chance he might shoot himself before he made good on his promise to work for Burt Forsyth until the Chronicle died. The effort of getting through this particular day, the bitterness and emptiness he had felt, had been so intense that he couldn’t be certain of his resolve to keep himself alive for eight more days. This way, in the event of overwhelming despair, he would have a chance of regaining control by the time he reached the diner, got the box, and went to his apartment.
For now, he had to do what Burt Forsyth intended-to distract himself. Jonathan Millgate meant nothing to him. Pittman’s career meant nothing. The Chronicle meant nothing. But Burt Forsyth did. In honor of Jeremy, Pittman felt compelled to keep the promise he had made. For eight more days.
Despite his reluctance, he went back to the hospital. This time, he took a taxi. Not because he was in a hurry. After all, he still had a great deal of time to fill and would have preferred to walk. But to get to the hospital, he would have had to pass through several neighborhoods that became dangerous at this hour. He found it bitterly ironic that in doing his best to postpone his death for eight more days, he had to be extra careful about not dying in the meanwhile.
He returned to the hospital because of the television announcer’s reference to Millgate. Through the thin walls of his apartment, he had listened to the news report. Pittman’s expectation was that Millgate had died and a brief summary of his public-service career was being provided. Burt Forsyth would be annoyed about that-Millgate dying before Pittman finished the obituary in time for tomorrow morning’s edition of the newspaper. But the TV news story had not been about Millgate’s death. To the contrary, Millgate was still in intensive care, as the announcer had pointed out.
Instead, the story had been about another possible scandal in Millgate’s background. To the government’s dismay, a copy of a Justice Department special prosecutor’s report had been leaked to the press this evening. The report, a first draft never intended for publication, implicated Millgate as a negotiator in a possible covert attempt-unsanctioned by Congress-to buy nuclear weapons from the chaos of governments in what used to be the Soviet Union.
An unsubtantiated charge against him. Solely an in-house assessment of where the Justice Department’s investigation might eventually lead. But the gravity of the news announcer’s voice had made the grave allegation sound like established fact. Guilty until proven innocent. This was the second time in seven years that Jonathan Millgate had been implicated as a go-between in a major arms scandal, and Pittman knew that if he failed to investigate this time, if he didn’t at least make an attempt to get a statement from Millgate’s people, Burt Forsyth would accuse him of reneging on his bargain to do his best for the Chronicle during the brief time remaining to it. For Burt and what Burt had done for Jeremy, Pittman forced himself to try.